


if the fates allow

by effie214



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effie214/pseuds/effie214
Summary: It still makes him wonder; pulls him from the now into the what if, and because he’s got the reality right next to him, he lets himself fall into the unknown.What would be true in another life? What would be different in the erstwhile elsewhere?(Or, the one where Oliver thinks about how different things could be, while knowing that one thing would absolutely stay the same: Felicity Smoak, next to -- and the very best thing about -- him.)





	if the fates allow

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for Ridhi over on Tumblr as part of the 2017 Olicity Secret Santa exchange. Normally I'd add this type of Tumblr-inspired shenanigan to "throw your soul through every open door," as that's what that collection is comprised of, but seeing as it comes in at over 10k, I thought it more appropriate and hopefully convenient to list it separately. Ridhi stated she liked meet cutes as well as canon, and I took that and ran the Boston Marathon with it.
> 
> A massive shout-out to eternal cheerleader/idea bouncer-offer/multiverse torture partner in crime theshipsfirstmate for the enthusiastic flailing and spitballing that helped corral this sucker into existence. The least I could do was offer a glimpse into our favorite ‘verse, because words could never convey just how awesome and supportive and amazing she is. Thanks, my dude. Further, boundless gratitude to the trio who managed this year's exchange. Thank you all for your incredible hard work.
> 
> Title from "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," traditional, with my favorite belonging to the incomparable Martina McBride. Credit/blame goes to Google for the slightly alarming amount of research I ended up needing to do to pull this piece together; I have a terrible fear that some of it is incorrect, but hey, it’s the holidays, you can forgive my cut and paste. 
> 
> Set around and during 6x09, with AUs that include everyone and their literal mothers.

 

This time around, he’s actually learning from his mistakes, and it’s why he takes some time to take in his wife -- those words will never not resonate in his head, a quiet dream now improbably being lived out loud -- as she gets ready for their wedding reception. He knows the minute they enter the room, she’ll be pulled away -- something he finds he doesn’t mind so much this time around, because he knows with a certainty he hasn’t felt in a very long while, deep in the heart she helped fix and the soul she helped save -- because at the end of the evening, they’ll come together and head back home, toward tomorrow.

He sits on the edge of his bed --  _ their _ bed; wherever she is is where he not only wants to be but is supposed to stay --  and watches as she does her hair and makeup but stays in a pair of black leggings and one of his dress shirts tied at the waist. When he raises a questioning eyebrow, she just shrugs teasingly. “It’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the ceremony.”

He’s physically incapable of remaining on the edge of the mattress across the room, and comes up behind her at the little area she’s commandeered for herself on his vanity. “So it  _ is _ a dress.”

“You can speculate all you want, Mr. Smoak, but you’re just going to have to wait and see.”

He sighs dramatically and then delights in the happy color that rushes to her cheeks as she meets his gaze in the mirror and grins. “I think you might just be worth the wait, Mrs. Queen.”

He kisses the side of her head and gives in to the urge to slide his left hand down her arm, the band of his wedding ring moving easily across the fabric of the shirt sleeve, and they breathe together when she covers his hand with her own, the simple silver of their bands resting together almost like an infinity symbol.

It would be easy to think this was destined or fated; it would be easy to be caught up in the whirlwind of their vow exchange and coast on the adrenaline of yet another bad-guy invasion that put things into badly-needed perspective, but something  _ else _ he knows with certainty is that they have earned this. They have fought for it, hard, and have given up as much as they are taking now.

He’s wasted so much time throughout his life, and if he makes one more promise to her, it will be that he refuses to do that again.

She brings his knuckles to her lips and kisses his wedding ring reverently, and then catches his eye in the mirror again. “Thanks for doing this.”

She reads his confusion easily -- she’s read so much of him effortlessly, and yet somehow still waited for him to tell her things he didn’t even know were true -- and she leans back, her still-setting curls resting against the breadth of his shoulder. “I know you would much rather just hang out here with William and a pepperoni pizza.”

He squeezes her hip. “Pepperoni’s your thing, hon.”

“Okay, fine,  _ I  _ would much rather just hang out here with William and a pepperoni pizza and you giving me a footrub, but --”

He shakes his head gently and then, just as delicately, turns her in his arms and rests his forehead against hers. “I’m happy being wherever  _ you _ are.”

“You say that now,” she replies in a teasingly hoarse whisper, tapping his chest with her index finger, “while my mother is still at her hotel. But God forbid  _ Hava Nagila _ starts.”

“Hey.” He curls a finger beneath her chin and tilts her face upward, pausing momentarily because though she’s the wordsmith, he wants -- and desperately needs -- to get this  _ right. _ “After the island, there wasn’t much…. _ life  _ in my life. I thought I started to build one when I put on the hood. But you -- you showed me the possibilities, Felicity. You showed me there was so much more than what I was doing, and not only did you help make me want it, you made me feel like I deserved it.” He brings her hand and rests it above his heart -- because for the placement of his Bratva tattoo and all the other scars he carries the weight of, the press of her wedding band into his skin makes him feel lighter than he ever has before. “So if I have to dance to  _ Hava Nagila _ twelve times tonight and at our children’s bat or bar mitzvahs, I will do it, and I will do it happily.”

She makes a happy noise in the back of her throat and goes up on her toes to kiss him before stepping back and wiping the trace of lipstick she’d left on his mouth. “Just do me one favor?”

“No mentioning bar or bat mitzvahs to your mother. Got it.”

* * *

Getting into a towncar still brings up many memories, even as it makes their course -- the lives they had and the life they’re building together -- run full circle. They’ve done this too many times for his taste, blood and back seats, but as William settles across from them, informing them of a Mathelite competition at his school, and Felicity takes Oliver’s hand in hers, that warmth from earlier -- the warmth he’s crawled to time and again when faced with what seemed like a coldly inevitable end, only to find an unbelievable beginning -- spreads through the winter evening and he relaxes into the feeling of family that surrounds him.

He sees his world moving and shifting around him as that family and his future define, and as Felicity and William chat happily away, it again makes him reflect on his earlier thoughts -- not to mention the earlier deeds that brought her to him and vice versa. Maybe there  _ can _ be a marriage between fate and choice; everywhere he’s been, there she is -- standing right next to him, or  _ up _ to him, whatever that version of him needs.

All he can hope for for this version -- this woman, this life -- is to be everything she thinks he already is.

But it still makes him wonder; pulls him from the  _ now _ into the  _ what if _ , and because he’s got the reality right next to him, he lets himself fall into the unknown.

What would be true in another life? What would be different in the erstwhile elsewhere?

 

_ Tommy’s stealing fries from Laurel’s basket as they take a dinner break at Big Belly; Oliver smiles at Carly, the waitress, as she sets a milkshake in front of his customary perch at the counter. _

_ Giving his best friend a moment with his new girlfriend? Something Oliver Queen, excellent friend and dedicated wingman, is well trained to do. _

_ Giving his best friend a moment with his new girlfriend, who happens to be Oliver’s own ex-girlfriend? _

_ Yeah, it’s a shame Carly has none of her brother-in-law John’s whiskey on hand, because that one takes a little liquid courage and a lot more time. _

_ It’s still funny to him that Tommy and Laurel getting together is throwing him for such a loop; he spent the majority of his teenage years and quite a few of his twenties enjoying whatever trouble came his way; the stranger, more often than not, the better. _

_ That all ended on a Tuesday night in an alley in the Glades, with his father and Tommy’s mom and a knife-wielding someone who didn’t like them poking their noses in other people’s business. _

_ It had been Tommy who had sought out the discipline in a time of crisis and chaos; Tommy who had gone to Laurel’s dad about being a cop at first, before becoming interested in working in ambulances. It had been Tommy who picked Oliver up at his lowest, soaked in regret and cheap liquor, and it had been Tommy who had pushed him to start both EMT and hand-to-hand combat training with Digg. It had been Tommy who graduated first, but Oliver who, after putting mind and effort into every aspect of not only his training but his life, excelled and moved on to paramedic school, and it had been Oliver who had been able to first request Tommy join him on his rig. _

_ They’re brothers by choice and blood spilt, and as weird as Tommy and Laurel being together feels at times, he can’t begrudge them the shared whispers and delighted laughter -- even if their relationship  _ had _ started the inevitable questions from his mother about “settling down” and “finding a nice girl to do that with.” _

_ No, he’s happy in other parts of his life: he’s closer with his sister than he’s ever been, he’s proud to hold a job helping people and protecting his city, and making his own way rather than coasting on the family name. _

_ The radio on his hip crackles to life; the SCPD code for a one-vehicle accident just a few blocks away on the edge of the business district comes across the mic, with dispatch asking for paramedics to roll too. Tommy hears it from his own shoulder, and presses a fleeting kiss to Laurel’s forehead as Oliver leaves Carly a tip and a smile. _

_ Since the Glades tend to be deserted this late into the evening, they make the scene quickly. A lone officer is trying to control two parties, a tiny blonde and a taller black man -- though as Tommy throws the truck into park, it looks to Oliver like the two men are trying to corral the much smaller woman from taking off at a run through the small park adjacent to where she’d run into the curb. _

_ “Drunk or high?” Tommy asks as he opens the back doors, readying their stretcher for a possible transfer. _

_ “Drunk, easy,” Oliver replies, grabbing his bag and hauling it over his shoulder before walking to the stopped car. _

_ “Just as long as they don’t pee on the cop car like the last one,” Tommy replies before nodding to the patrolman already at the scene. “Hey, Eddie.” _

_ The officer doesn’t even get a chance to reply to the pleasantry, let alone inform them of the situation, because the woman spins in a high-heeled pivot, ponytail swinging in a defiant arc, a small but persistently bloody cut on her forehead. “Oh, thank the Google gods, will you gentlemen please clear me as perfectly unharmed so I can go make sure the dog is okay?” _

_ “Felicity, the dog is fine. You swung from the other side of the street to miss him,” her friend says, leaning against her Mini Cooper and rubbing at his forehead. _

_ “Wait, you...pulled a 180 degree  _ Fast and Furious _ u-turn to miss a  _ dog?”  _ Tommy asks, half incredulous and half amused. _

_ “I sincerely hope you’re not suggesting I should have  _ hit it, _ ” the semi-hysterical woman replies. _

_ “Talk about hitting things,” her friend mutters, not fully to himself as he looks Oliver up and down for a minute.  He seems to catch himself, darting his eyes away. “Paul is on his way, and we’ll take you home, okay?” _

_ “The car’s  _ fine,  _ and so am I,” the woman -- Felicity -- insists. “It’s the  _ dog _ I’m worried about.” _

_ “What kind of dog was it?” Oliver asks, stepping forward with his pen light to try to shine it in her eyes. “Can you take your glasses off for me, ma’am?” _

_ “A husky, I think,” she says, throwing the frames on top of her head and following the beam. Her next words are soft enough that only Oliver really hears them. “Skinny and scared. I need to know she’s -- it’s -- okay.” _

_ There’s something to those words -- to her tone -- that has Oliver taking a moment to really look at the woman in front of him. Her hands are shaking, but somehow he just gets the feeling it’s not from the accident or the slight impact she seems to have made with her steering wheel. Her eyes are bloodshot, but not from alcohol or illicit substances. There’s something...deeper there, an answer he doesn’t know the question to yet. _

_ A mystery that needs to be solved. _

_ “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Oliver asks softly, resting a hand over where hers are folded in front of her. Even in the dim streetlight, he can see the robin egg blue of her nail polish, and the hue matches her eyes when she looks back up at him. _

_ “I’m fine,” she insists again, though it’s quieter now, more...tired. Resigned. And it  _ bothers _ him, in a way things really haven’t since he came to this job -- came back to  _ himself _. “It’s just been a long day.” _

_ “Let me guess, your boss is an asshole?” _

_ She laughs at that, the sound both hollow and surprised. “Well, seeing as I’m my own boss -- Curtis and I are trying to start a start-up -- I really hope the lack of money for minorities in STEM isn’t also my fault, ‘cause that would...suck.” _

_ She glances away then, and so he does a quick check of her neck and presses as gently and lightly as he can around her face to ensure she doesn’t have any cracked facial bones. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t have a concussion, but asks the questions anyway. “Headache? Nausea? Blurry vision?” _

_ “No, no and --” she pulls her glasses from atop her head, and he can’t help it, he smiles. Something warm slides through him when she returns it. “No. All good.” _

_ “Well, your car looks driveable,” Tommy says, completing a circle around it and looking at Eddie for confirmation. “Though, does your lease cover blood stains?” _

_ “Ugh,” Felicity says, her chin dropping so quickly that it almost hits Oliver’s chest instead of her own. “This is the worst day ever.” _

_ Oliver chuckles again, and places a light hand on her bicep, which she glances at before looking up at him like she’s trying to figure him out, too. “You’re sure you don’t need a head CT at Starling General?” _

_ “I’m fine, I promise,” she replies with a nod. “Please go back to being our best and bravest, and leave the overtired, barely employed computer nerd to search for a dog that’s probably halfway to Central City by now.” _

_ He doesn’t even think to tell her not to; he just blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll help you look.” _

_ She should probably be looking at him like he’s crazy, which, frankly, isn’t out of the question, but he just somehow  _ knows _ she needs this. She needs this win, she needs this belief upheld, and sure, chasing stray dogs through the city at ten til midnight wasn’t part of the training, but sometimes the biggest victories come from the smallest moments. _

_ He knows what it’s like to be first on scene, to be pulled by the idea that you and you alone can fix a problem. And more than that, it’s a call he’s answered, Tommy at his side. Some days, it’s that connection that is the sole thing that keeps him going -- someone else who believes. _

_ And there’s just something about her, something that’s not just calling to him but something that he responds to; a cacophony of reply instead of an echo in the silence. _

_ He knows all too well that it doesn’t have to be your fault for something to break you. And if he can help that -- even if he can just be there to make sure the pieces don’t scatter to the four corners -- then that’s what he’ll do. _

_ He glances over at Tommy and nods his head back toward the diner. “Go hang out with Laurel for a little while. You can swing by and pick me up if we’re 10-8 again.” _

_ Tommy blinks at him for a moment, and then nods. “10-4.” _

_ A Toyota Corolla flashes their headlights and pulls Felicity’s attention from Oliver back to Curtis for a moment. “Go,” she says before her friend can even open his mouth, “and tell Paul I’m sorry I kept you out so late.” _

_ Curtis nods, but looks between Oliver and Felicity before resting his gaze on her. “You’re sure you’re okay?” _

_ “I’m good,” she promises, with a tired but sincere smile. “Thank you.” _

_ Within a minute, they’re standing on the side of the road alone, the ambulance, the police car and the civilian vehicle all taking off slowly into the night, and as he clears the scene to his own satisfaction, he can see in his peripheral vision that Felicity’s tilted her head and is...not sizing him up, necessarily, but maybe trying to figure out what game he’s playing. _

_ That’s just it, though; he’s not playing any game. Not anymore, but even separate from that, not with her. _

_ Though he can’t name what she’s making him feel, whatever is happening -- whatever  _ will _ happen -- is something he knows he’s better for, merely having experienced it. _

_ He cups her elbow again and leads her to step off the road and onto the sidewalk. “Which way did the dog go?” _

_ She motions to the open green space in between the tech giants’ headquarters, and he takes two steps before realizing she’s not with him. He turns, the crease of his pants brushing against his knee at the quick movement. _

_ “You good?” _

_ She purses her lips in confusion, shaking her head slightly, sending that ponytail in motion again. “What...why...you don’t have to do this.” _

_ What comes out isn’t his normal deflection or protection; he’s started to realize his verbal responses are just as well-timed and plotted as the hand-to-hand techniques he’s been learning. With her, though, that defense seems to go right out the window. It’s puzzling. It’s terrifying. _

_ It’s invigorating. _

_ “I know,” is all he says in reply. “I’d like to, though. If it’s okay with you.” _

_ She licks her lips and sizes him up fully, openly, and he lets her -- why, he doesn’t know, but he’s more aware that it’s actually okay with him that she is. _

_ He is scarred and broken, tortured in his own way. _

_ Something just tells him she is, too. _

_ She squares her shoulders and pulls her cream trenchcoat tighter around her as she steps back toward him, and he follows her lead. They head toward a gathering of trees and small shrubs in the center of the otherwise open space, and she pulls out her cell phone, turning on the flashlight function. _

_ She makes some kissy-noises, whispers “here, sweetie, we just want to make sure you’re okay,” and he looks around as well, letting his eyes focus in the dark, but his attention is always drawn back to Felicity. The longer they wander, the lower her shoulders drop with the weight that seems to pile on with every step, and he finds himself -- for the first time since middle school, probably -- desperately fishing for something to say. _

_ “What kind of business are you and Curtis looking to run?” _

_ She jumps a little, like she’d half-forgotten he was here, and she glances quickly at him before taking a left further into the neighborhood that dots the space between the tech corridor and the Glades proper. “Uh, a tech start-up. Medical tech, specifically.” _

_ “Like, defibrillators, or…?” _

_ For some reason, that makes her smile. She ducks her head to see if the dog is hiding under or between cars, but then looks back at him, and there’s a smile on her face and a light in her eyes that weren’t there a moment ago. _

_ This job and Digg and his own battles have taught him to listen to his gut; to that little voice in the back of his head when it speaks up. And he’s sure in that moment, that though the woman in front of him -- to bastardize the one Shakespeare reference he remembers from the four colleges he attended -- be tiny, she is mighty, and that though this mission of hers took a downturn tonight, she’s still stronger and better for it. _

_ He knows the feeling. Sometimes you just have to do the right thing. _

_ “I was, uh, in a car accident a few years ago,” she says as they turn the corner and continue down the block that edges the park. “It was pretty bad. The doctors actually told me I wouldn’t walk again.” _

_ He’s glad the lights they’re sweeping over the sidewalk are focused there and of relatively low power, because he’s not even sure what his face looks like right now. His mouth is parted -- in surprise, in awe -- and he thinks she might just be the most remarkable person he’s ever met. _

_ He realizes then that she’s still speaking, and focuses back on her. “I did the PT thing, everything the doctors recommended, and I had started to accept it -- because I’m still me at my badass core, whether it’s on two feet or in a wheelchair -- but Curtis came up with a spinal implant, and when we tried it, it worked.” _

_ “Wow,” he breathes, shaking his head. “That’s...incredible.” _

_ She grins, her smile somehow brighter than all of Starling lit up for the night.  “I know. And now we want to replicate it, give others the chance I had.” She pauses mid-stride, putting her hand on his arm. “What’s with the scrunchy face?” _

_ “The what?” _

_ She points toward his brow. “You’re making the same face I do when I’m knee deep in Serious Thoughts.” _

_ He laughs, and she wiggles her shoulders in something akin to adorable triumph. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out how on earth you can’t get companies or research grant committees interested in that.” _

_ “Wonders never cease,” she says, but then nods. “We’re not giving up. I  _ can’t _ give up. I mean, it would have been easy to stay in Vegas and be a cocktail waitress like my mom, but I’ve always believed I could be more.” _

_ He’s known her all of five minutes and would bet his life on that fact. _

_ She’s still speaking, and he follows her eyeline as she looks up to the city skyline behind them. “And Starling’s the right place to be for this. I just know it. You’ve got Merlyn Global, Queen Consolidated, Kord Industries...I just have to find the right fit, that’s all. Get my foot in the door.” _

_ She begins to move again; this time, his is the hand that catches her, curling around her waist, as he hears scratching from behind a dumpster. Felicity turns on a dime to shine her phone toward the sound of the noise, and when she takes two tentative steps toward the source, in the stillness that surrounds them -- space and sound that, now that she’s no longer talking to him, makes him feel about as muted in words and existence as he’s ever been -- a dirty, mangy dog head appears from down the alley. _

_ Felicity immediately goes into a crouch and reaches out her hand. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I scared you.” _

_ Oliver kneels next to her, forcing himself to balance his hand on the concrete below him rather than the center of her back. It seems like the dog is equally compelled to come to the blonde next to him, approaching slowly and with a tail half between its legs. It’s clear she’s been a stray for awhile, but Felicity wastes no time in petting the animal, its dirt darkening the gromets on her coat, and within a few minutes, the husky’s tail is out and swinging happily from side to side.  “No collar,” Felicity notes. “Think she’s microchipped?” _

_ All Oliver can do is shrug. “I could call Animal Control, see if they’ll come out with the ID scanner they use.” _

_ Felicity seems to weigh something up, looking at him searchingly, before saying, “I don’t want to keep you.” _

_ This time, he does put his hand on her back. “I really don’t mind, Felicity. In fact, I’d like to.” _

_ The dog follows obediently as they head back the way they came, until Oliver has an idea. “There’s usually a hot dog vendor a few streets down,” he says. “We should get her something to eat.” _

_ Felicity’s face softens, and oh, she might just be the end of him -- or the beginning of everything. “I think she might like that.” _

_ He keeps his hand on the small of her back as they arrive in the better-lit section of the city, and he nods to Stu, the longtime vendor in the business district, as they approach his cart. _

_ “Mr. Queen!” the man says warmly. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” _

_ “Worked days for a little bit there,” Oliver explains, fishing out a few bills from his pocket. “Two for now,” he says. “You holding the fort down over here?” _

_ “Ah, you know me, Mr. Queen,” the man says, pulling out his phone. “I have pictures of the newest granddaughter, if you’d like to see.” _

_ “Always.” he says, before realizing Felicity has gone very still and very, very quiet next to him. He looks down, and her eyes are huge behind her glasses, her lips parted in clear shock. “Felicity?” _

_ “You’re Oliver Queen,” she breathes. “Oh, my god, I’m such an idiot. And I don’t mean that metaphorically. I have reached real ‘MENSA should take my membership card away’ level over here.” _

_ When he was younger, he’d ignored and then rebelled against his name -- his legacy. He’d taken great pains to build his own life, forge his own path, make his own terms. _

_ This is the one time he wishes he had embraced it, because what he wouldn’t give for the ability to give her everything right here and right now. _

_ Still, he’s not defensive like his younger self would have been, and it feels like she’s rewriting his rules as her own. “I am,” he confirms quietly, weighing his words against her reactions. “Is that not okay, or…?” _

_ “No! I mean, yes, it’s okay, obviously. I’m sure it’s great for you. I just...I’m standing here talking about grants to the heir to Queen Consolidated and I don’t know what’s worse, not pitching it to you or you thinking I was.” _

_ He shakes his head. “I never thought that,” he answers honestly, handing the dog half of the first hot dog, which she eats in a flash. “I mean, I could tell you to call my mother’s second-in-command, Walter Steele. I could put in a good word. I’d be happy to do that for you. If you want.” _

_ She starts and stops several words, so half-formed he never really hears them, and he can almost  _ feel  _ it happening: the inevitable resettling of what people think he is versus who he’s worked to be. “I can’t ask you to do that,” she finally says. “I’m just a dog-chasing, steering-wheel-hitting IT girl.” _

_ He shakes his head, and with a deep breath and the same blind bravery that had him following her into the night, he speaks with fear but no filter. “You’re so much more than that. You’re...special, Felicity. And not because of that tech in your spine.  It’s because you get that it’s not about the money.  It’s about the mission. It’s about making the world a better place. You don’t need a foot in the door, Felicity, because I’m pretty sure you could kick right through it.” _

_ She licks her lips, looking up at him with eyes that no longer hold horror but instead something that looks very much like hope, and Christ, he wants to kiss her -- to find out what else they can discover together. Instead, he hands the dog the second half of her meal, chuckling as the animal does circles around Stu’s hand truck once she’s done, begging for more. He calls in the request for Animal Control, looks over Stu’s newest grandbaby, and after Felicity insists on buying him his own hot dog as an apology for making him miss part of his dinner break, they sit on the curb and wait. _

_ “Don’t say I never take you anywhere,” she teases as she hands over a bun covered with mustard. “Not that I -- what I mean to say is --” _

_ “Felicity?” he interrupts softly, wiping the corner of his mouth. _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Would you like to go to dinner with me?” _

_ (It turns out the dog’s not chipped, and it goes home with Felicity that night. Oliver does the same a few weeks later, and a year down the line, the husky walks alongside Digg’s little girl down the aisle at their wedding.) _

* * *

It’s a whirlwind when they arrive at the venue, what with Donna shooing him and William into the small reception room before scurrying to God knows where with her daughter. Oliver takes in the decor -- no exploding glitter in sight, for which he’s thankful -- and he has to say, it’s simple and tasteful.

He sees two men roaming with cameras, a photographer and his apprentice whose work Oliver knows Felicity likes and who’s costing a pretty penny, but he knows she thinks it’s worth it, and more than that, it’s important to her. There’s something...content about the feeling that settles deep in his bones that he knows that; that they’ve known each other’s secrets seemingly forever; knows his ins and outs -- pun not necessarily intended, but also welcome -- every piece of him, the good and the bad and the broken. Like when they spent their summer wandering and exploring both the world and each other, when he’d stumbled into a cooking class on Capri and she’d rekindled a love of photography from atop a island cliff that didn’t seem so far down to either of them anymore, given the depths from which they’d come.

 

_ He looks out at the view from his office -- the one two floors down from the one his CEO mother currently inhabits and that he’s expected to fill one day, regardless of how ill-prepared he feels for the role -- and watches as the early-morning light glints off the city his parents helped build, the city his father died trying to save, and feels...nothing. _

_ He’s gotten through the last year, the secrets he wishes were lies but that are actual truths that underline every part of an existence that feels less and less like his own, and he seems fine, but in the harsh light of day -- in the face of a young man old beyond his years that stares back at him in the glass with eyes that simply ask “why” -- he knows he’s barely surviving. _

_ He had a choice, one last chance ago, to pick up his father’s mask and mantle, and he’d blinked; closed his eyes enough until somehow, he’d ended up here, Vice-President with his name on the side of the building and a longing for anything other than the legacy he’s not sure he’s capable of filling. _

_ He may have missed the boat his father set sail on, but he’s still drowning. _

_ The knock at the door draws his attention for two reasons -- the interruption is welcome, but the sound is unknown. It’s not the familiar cadence of his trusted and seasoned EA when she requests entrance.  He turns from the window, fingers automatically going to double check that his blazer is buttoned, and he beckons the visitor in as his hand falls to his side, fingers rubbing against each other. _

_ “Mr. Queen?” _

_ It’s ridiculous and cliched and melodramatic, but the blonde that enters his office is brighter than the morning burning off around them, and he actually has to clear his throat before he can answer in a full voice. “Yes?” _

_ She strides confidently toward him, hand extended, somehow balancing a big bag on her shoulder and very tiny heels. “Felicity Smoak. You worked with a friend of mine from the  _ Citizen,  _ Iris West?” _

_ He feels half a step behind her somehow, and looks over her ponytailed head for his EA. _

_ “Uh, yeah, I might have broken your coffee maker. Maintenance is on its way,” Felicity says, curling her lips inward. _

_ “You -- “ The breath that comes out of him is half-disbelieving noise and half-laugh. “You broke my coffee maker?” _

_ “In my defense, it was really cheap and needed to go to the big recycle plant in the sky. I mean, your name’s on the side of the building. You’re  _ Mr. Queen.”  _ There’s an emphasis on the name that does something to the center of his chest, but she barely breathes between the words. “You deserve a much nicer coffee bar. I could give you, like, three names off the top of my head for excellent espresso makers.” _

_ He only hooks into the first part of her little babble .“Mr. Queen was my father.” _

_ “Right. But he’s dead. I mean, he vigilanted before he was dead. Which you did not need reminding of, and that’s why I’m stopping in three, two, one.” _

_ He  _ wants _ to laugh, which is strange in and of itself, but she’s an unruly wind caught in a canyon, and he is powerless and awed. He watches as she shakes her head in apparent disgust with herself as the heavy camera bag slides off her small frame before motioning to it with an awkward hand wave. _

_ “I need to get a couple of shots for Iris’ profile on you.” _

_ “Right,” he manages, body oddly stuttered and tone equally stilted. _

_ “Where would you like to do it?” She asks, and this time, he does slightly smile when her eyes fly shut and she expels a deep sigh as her chin drops to her chest. “I hate my brain sometimes.” _

_ “You’ve got the eye,” he finds himself saying in a voice and awareness so unlike his, like this lightning bolt of a woman has just struck him alive, in more ways than one. “What’s your recommendation?” _

_ She takes a look around the sparse office, and though he’s sure she intends to keep it quiet, hears her “a nice fern would spruce the place up a bit,” and he has to look down to keep his amusement private. He also takes the moment to center himself; he feels breathless, like he’s taken up sprinting after a long rest. _

_ Like, for the first time in his life, he’s running  _ to _ something instead of away from it. _

_ There is just something about her, something that’s not just calling to him but something that he responds to; a cacophony of reply instead of an echo in the silence. _

_ When he looks up again, she’s rested her extra lenses on the glass coffee table next to her, and is glancing around around the room, reading the light, and, he notices, him. He steps out of her way as she moves to the windows he was just standing in front of, glancing between him and the shadows and lights as she adjusts the blinds. _

_ He has long considered himself a stalwart, an immovable object even in the face of an unstoppable force, but feeling as off-kilter as he is now, he truly wonders if he’s ever encountered anything or any _ one _ like Felicity Smoak before. _

_ She chews on her lip for a moment as she seems to break the room into angles and arcs; it can’t be that he’s actually  _ seeing _ her mind work, can it? But he finds himself drawn to her, almost unable to process this type of force in his carefully-crafted existence, and it’s why he doesn’t argue when she asks him not to step behind his desk or sit in his oversized chair. Instead, he stands with arms and ankles crossed, leaning against the heavy oak table, like he’s a master of the corporate universe who doesn’t wake in the night with the weight of expectation and failure suffocating him. _

_ He hears the click of her lens before he realizes she’s speaking as she’s taking the pictures. “Sorry?” _

_ He can see her smile even from behind her lens. “I was just saying that I actually interviewed here. With Mr...Steele, I think his name was.” _

_ Add that to the list that catches him off guard. “Were we in the market for a photographer?” _

_ She shifts her stance ever so slightly before pressing the lens closed again. “I’m actually trained in IT.” _

_ “Our offer package not good enough for you?” _

_ She grins, pulling the camera down for just a minute. “Oh, it was plenty good. I just…” she sighs quietly, lifting her shoulders slightly, and it’s the first time she seems hesitant. “Sometimes you need a break, right? A change of pace. A breath of fresh air.” _

_ Air to a drowning man might be even more important than water to a thirsty one, he thinks. _

_ “And you chose photography?” _

_ She moves around his office, and for all her verbal gymnastics, she is light and lithe and he knows he shouldn’t be this caught up in it -- in  _ her  _ \-- but he truly can’t help it.  “When I was at MIT,” she says, reaching for one of the newspapers on his desk and singlehandedly throwing it open before sliding it easily in between the fingers that he’s apparently been moving this entire time, “my professors encouraged...expanding my horizons. I think they were just tired of seeing my face in the computer lab all day.” She grins happily when he chuckles, and then resets her shot. “And Boston in the fall is a beautiful place. Spring, too.” _

_ He knows the answer but asks anyway. “Not winter?” _

_ “Oh, God, no. I did go to an ALCS game in November of ‘07 that was cold as hell but a lot of fun. Got thrown out after they figured out my press pass for the photographer’s well was bogus, but at that point, I couldn’t feel my toes and had finals coming up, so…” She clicks her shutter again, and then motions with her lens for him to put the newspaper in front of him. There’s a line of sunlight coming right through the window, and she guides him into the perfect setup -- enough that she can change lenses without him growing antsy, which is a feat unto its own, but she keeps him talking, relaxed and...trusting.  “What about you? You can’t be all spreadsheets and corporate meet-and-greets all the time.” _

_ “Um…” The side of the open newspaper drops a bit when he glances over at her, trying to think of an answer. “I spend a lot of time with my sister, though she’s now dating a ruffian.” _

_ “A ruffian?” He can  _ hear  _ the laugh in her voice. _

_ “My mother’s word. Which is better than our housekeeper’s description of him.” _

_ “Don’t leave me hanging.” _

_ “Roughly translated, it’s...really not appropriate for polite company.” _

_ He turns and drops the newspaper after seeing her drop the camera. “I just told you I lied my ass off to get into Fenway Park, and you think I’m polite company?” _

_ He tilts his head, acknowledging her point. “It’s Russian, it basically means ‘this can’t be fixed and I’m done trying,’ and...involves screwing a horse.” _

_ Her laugh is loud and delighted, and he finds himself almost outright grinning before he resettles against his office furniture. “You know a lot of Russian?” she asks as she adjusts her own position again. _

_ “A little bit from when I was younger,” and God, he thinks he’s talked to her more than her friend the reporter, whom he sat with for over an hour. “Now she just gets on me about my eating and exercise habits.” _

_ “She sounds like my bubbe. ‘Felicity, honey, I called in an order down at the kosher deli for you, and if the owner’s nephew puts his phone number on the packaging, do call him, dear. He’s such a nice boy.’” _

_ “Yeah, I just get told that Monte Cristos between homemade waffles are the devil’s food, particularly at two in the morning.” _

_ He looks full-on at her when she slowly drops the camera, her mouth parting ever so slightly, sending a very different coil of tension through him. “I don’t know your housekeeper, but I don’t think anyone has ever been more wrong about anything in the history of the world.” _

_ “I’m pretty proud of it,” he admits. “Took some perfecting, but....” He shrugs, but it’s fake humility, and pride slides through his veins for the first time in years. _

_ “Okay, deal time: I will send you links for new, better coffee makers if you send me that recipe.” _

_ There is a moment, he realizes then, when everything changes. He wasn’t ready when his father died, was resurrected, and then buried beneath the city he’d ruined and then tried to rescue. He wasn’t ready when his mother put him on a pedestal and in an office on the upper floor. _

_ He’s had chances, and he’s had choices, but he’s never realized the crossroads until they’re long gone. _

_ He has a choice now. _

_ A second chance. _

_ He takes it. _

_ “Felicity,” he says, tripping over the hope on his tongue and the syllables in her name, “let me take you to lunch, and I’ll tell you all about it.” _

_ (The article comes out, but it’s the pictures that cause a big stir -- not just the elegantly framed ones Felicity takes in the office that day, but the paparazzi ones of them at both a kosher deli and a supermarket picking out ingredients for waffles.) _

* * *

The night is memorable for several reasons, both good and bad, and when he needs to focus more on the former rather than the latter, it’s not just the feeling of seeing Felicity walk into the room -- walk toward him, again and for always -- or their first dance, or the bit of frosting that unexpectedly fell off her finger into his mouth that makes him laugh out loud that lifts his soul. It’s seeing his family build right in front of his eyes; it’s seeing William and Noah chattering a mile a minute about tech things that Donna definitely doesn’t understand but sits to listen to anyway because she wants William to be as comfortable as he can be around her; it’s seeing Digg make a still-healing Thea laugh uproariously with whatever the hell kind of dancing he was jokingly doing, and most of all, it’s seeing his son pull his wife into a Smoak-level hug.

 

_ He’s thrilled to have taken the Porsche to work today, because he needs every inch of that horsepower to try to make it to Tech Village before they close for the night.  _

_ He feels terrible peeling into the parking lot literally three minutes before they’re supposed to close, but Samantha’s finally acquiesced to his request to spend at least part of Christmas tomorrow with William, so he needs to be on the first train to Central City. _

_ At least he knows what he needs. _

_ Or, at least he thinks he does. _

_ As seems to be his life lately, he’s so very, very wrong. _

_ He pulls up the text in which William had talked about different games and gadgets he’d read about, and starts hurriedly perusing the shelves, trying to gauge which would be best. _

_ It’s not long before his eyes are crossing and his head is swimming, and much like fatherhood itself, it slowly dawns on him that he is screwed. _

_ “Screwed, huh?” _

_ He jumps a bit, hand flying to his chest, turning to find a bespectacled blonde in a blue polo and khakis. _

_ “Sorry,” they say in unison, before the employee motions to the display in front of him. _

_ “You need any help?” _

_ “I’m pretty sure I need all the help,” he says unthinkingly, glancing upward when a storewide announcement about it being closing time is put over the speakers, not sure if or how he should address it. _

_ The woman sees his reaction and saves him from himself. “I’m the head overlord in charge,” she says kindly. “I can keep the lights on. Edison’s super jealous of my skills.” _

_ He can’t hold back a smile. Still… “I don’t want to keep you,” he finally says. “You should be going home to your family. It’s Christmas Eve.” _

_ “I’m Jewish,” she says quickly, almost like she couldn’t stop herself. “And honestly, the only thing waiting for me at home is my neighbor Mrs. Fernandez’s cat and whatever leaf she stealthily hunted to leave on my doormat today.” _

_ That has him laughing outright. “Did you get extra presents from her for Hanukkah?” _

_ “No, but she was really interested in the latkes I made. Well, I guess the technical term is burned. But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about why you’re screwed.” _

_ A flush runs up her cheeks just a little bit, and God forgive him, he’s pretty sure he’s the living embodiment of the heart-eye emoji Thea sends him every now and again. He’ll wonder later why she was so disarming, so intriguing, but in the moment all he does is talk about his current problem, and bless her, she shoulders it as her own. “I need to pick up a present for my son.” _

_ She nods, even as her brow crinkles slightly in confusion, and it’s nothing short of adorable. “Your...wife didn’t send you with a list? Not that that’s weird!” she says hastily, sputtering forward. “Well, it’s kind of weird? Just in the sense that most men who come in here this time of year have a battle plan very specifically laid out for them, like it’s D-Day in Normandy. Or Black Friday at the Coach outlet.” _

_ “I’ll take your word on it,” is all he can think of to say. “It’s not... _ I’m  _ not...it’s just me.” _

_ “Ah, gotcha. Well, I’m glad that babble turned out to be very helpful and also relevant.” She sucks in her cheek for a moment, pausing and considering, and then looks back down at the shelves. “How old is your son?” _

_ “Eleven,” he says. _

_ “What kind of games does he like? Is he a Call of Duty kid, or...?” _

_ Oliver shakes his head. “We play a lot of Injustice 2.” _

_ “Nice! I tend to play as Sub-Zero myself. One of the extra downloadable characters,” she explains. _

_ He chuckles. “He does, too. Gets me every time.” _

_ “Smart kid.” _

_ “He really is,” Oliver says, a familiar swathe of pride spreading warmly through his chest. It had taken a lot to get to this point-- not just with William, but Samantha and Oliver’s own mother. The first few years had been rough, taut like a string on a bow, arrow nocked and loaded to pierce through anything and everything, from the pregnancy test being positive in the first place to Moira walking down a misguided path of interference that it had taken a lot of anger and tears and ultimately, finding the strength in forgiveness to come back from, not to mention his own missteps and mistakes as he tried to figure out how not just to be a good dad, but a good man in general.   _

_ It’s still something he’s trying to figure out, but he refuses to be an island; refuses to get caught in the tide, and knows the struggles of swimming to shore. _

_ Glancing over at Felicity when she moves to wave her employees out for the night, he has the odd but knee-buckling thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do with a lighthouse to guide him home. _

_ She turns her attention back to the stock, and taps a manicured finger to her lips as she studies the vast array of products. “Is he a math and science kid, or a physical endurance guy like yourself?” _

_ “Sorry?” It comes out as a half-laugh, half-gasp, and she squeezes her eyes shut. _

_ “I just noticed your....build...and your girth…” she makes some strange movement with her hands, curling them out toward his bicep, and the movement is punctuated by what almost sounds like a light growl. “Never mind. He prefer school or sports?” _

_ “School,” he says. “He’s really good at math. His mother and I have to YouTube refresher videos to even glance at his homework, and then he sits there looking at us like we’re idiots. Which we are. I got a D minus in Algebra.” Why he’s telling her this, he’s got no idea. But it just feels right to, somehow. _

_ Maybe it's the sensations of the season -- everyday miracles and quiet beauty enhanced by gentle lights in the darkness. _

_ Or maybe it's just her. _

_ She smiles widely. “He sounds like a kid after my own heart. I loved school. Changed everything for me. Just...let him be him, and be there for him when he doesn’t know who that is. That’s the most important thing.” She lolls her head back, shaking it toward the ceiling. “Not that you needed my help with parenting.” _

_ “Again, I think I need all the help,” Oliver says, the tightness in his chest shifting to the eternal question of whether or not he’d ever be good enough. _

_ “Hey,” she says softly, drawing his attention back to her, “you’re in a Tech Village on Christmas Eve worrying about the perfect present for him.  _ _ You showed up. You're  _ there _.  _ _ That’s, like, Dad of the Year criteria right there. To me, anyway.” _

_ “Thank you,” he says, glancing down at her badge. “Felicity.”  _ _ Because of course her name is Felicity. Of course it is. _

_ Happiness. Light. _

_ Quiet dreams. _

_ Maybes that lead into always. _

_ Everyday miracles. _

_ If only he knew how to make it all last. _

_ “That’s me, your human form of nerdy Google. A role I relish. Happily, I mean,” she says teasingly, pushing her glasses further up her nose. _

_ He extends his hand. “Oliver.” _

_ “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver,” she says quietly as she takes it, and there’s a look in her eyes, a draw he hasn’t felt in a very long time. It’s like they’re not standing in a box store past closing time on Christmas Eve; if anything, they’re in their own little world, and he’s equal parts intrigued and wary of that. _

_ She was wrong earlier -- he did have a plan of what he was going to do, tenets of how he was going to live his life, but somehow he thinks she’d be a game-changer; someone who would throw around words like meaning and purpose. Because as he looks at her, he feels the oddest sense of safety. _

_ He feels like he can trust her; the only question is, is he able to trust himself?   _

_ Because though he can’t name what she’s making him feel, whatever is happening -- whatever will happen -- is something he just knows he’s better for, merely having experienced it. _

_ “Thank you for this,” he finds himself saying lowly, touched by how invested she is at this point, caught up in her very soft reply of “yeah,” and he realizes that this isn’t just something he’s gone without while he focused on his family, while he shut himself away from the world to stabilize his son’s; this is something he’s never had before, and inch by inch, it’s getting under his skin. _

_ The crazy part about that is that he  _ likes it.

_ “For what it’s worth, it sounds like he’s a pretty cool kid.” _

_ That draws a soft, sweet smile to his lips. “He is.” For all his doubts, all his wants, that’s one thing Oliver knows for sure. _

_ The clap of her hands pulls him from his reverie, and her words draw his eyes back to her. “What kind of computer does he have?” _

_ “A Macbook, I think. I’m not...good with computers.” _

_ “Ah, well, if you ever decide you would like to be, I’m your girl.” Her hands start flying again. “Not your  _ girl _ girl...it sounds like something different in my head.” She sighs. “What I mean is that we do classes here, should you ever want to learn.” _

_ “I will keep that in mind,” he says, looking down at her, wondering if it would be going too far to purchase a computer and then spill a latte on it just to bring it back and ask her to fix it. _

_ She nods, a pleased look on her face, and finally, she leans down in front of him to pull something from the back of a shelf. “I think this is the way to go. If he doesn’t like it, just bring it back and we’ll find something he does.” _

_ He barely looks at the box and assorted accessories as she piles them in his hands, and within a few minutes, he’s following her to the sales counter and watching as she rings up the purchases. He hands over his credit card, which she swipes once, and then again. She furrows her brow and purses her lips when she swipes it a third time and still nothing happens. “Stupid…” she sighs and glances up at him. “Do you happen to have another card?” _

_ He does, and hands it to her, with the same results. “Hang on a second,” she says, walking behind a swinging door and into what appears to be an employee area with a few monitors and keyboards, and starts tapping a mile a minute. _

_ He can only hear bits and pieces of what she says as she talks to herself -- “reset that, and reroute you, and...aha!” She punctuates the word with a victorious fist pump, and he thanks whatever forces made sure she was working tonight and not one of the other employees. _

_ She comes back to stand in front of him and tries his card again, shimmying her shoulders victoriously when it goes in. “The card verification system was down,” she explains, and he nods like he knows or cares what she means. _

_ “Came back pretty quick,” is the only reply he can think of, and she winks. _

_ “I might have helped it a little,” she admits, bagging the boxes up for him. _

_ “Wait, you hacked the credit card company’s routing system?” _

_ She looks over the top of her glasses at him. “Is that judgment I’m hearing?” _

_ “Pride,” he replies, and she smiles proudly, genuinely, as their fingers brush when he takes the plastic bag from her hand. “Thank you, Felicity.” _

_ “Always.” _

_ (It does turn out to be always, because after the holidays, he goes back to Tech Village -- with William this time, who does indeed roll his eyes a bit when his father is in the car reassuring himself that asking Felicity out isn’t crazy. “Dad, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter what kind of restaurant you take her to.” _

_ It didn’t; what mattered was the yes.  What matters even more is how Felicity ends up being forced to play William’s favorite video game as Blue Beetle, and that several Hanukkahs down the road, it’s Oliver making the sure latkes don’t burn.) _

 

* * *

 

Their world isn’t torn to pieces, but it’s not held together by much, either, and Oliver feels that pull physically when he and Felicity stumble home well past midnight. He stops in the entryway, bent arm supporting Felicity as she toes off her shoes and simultaneously supporting  _ him _ by pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He turns his face down to her and cradles her cheeks in his hands. He doesn’t miss the shiver that goes through her when his wedding band slides gently against her cheek, and he’s sure she doesn’t miss the deep sigh he expels when he rests his forehead against hers and just  _ breathes. _

He needs this moment just to exist with her -- to remember that they have fought so long and so hard and even though many things change, that they are doing this side by side is something that never really has.

“I’m going to go check on William,” he says, and she nods, pressing a gentle kiss to a spot on his chin.

His son has fallen asleep with his phone in his hand, and Oliver moves to place it on the nightstand. The movement wakes it, and for all he has seen and done and been, the thing that both breaks and makes him is the sight of the photo William had been looking at before he dozed off: a really lovely selfie of the three of them in which the boy is smiling wider than his father has ever seen.

It’s too much to think about the fact that eight years ago, that same father was a lost soul who didn’t think this kind of redemption existed; that thought the only reason  _ he _ existed was merely to suffer in the shadows, but he carries it with him, and it’s as much a part of him as every member of their family.

When he gets to the master bedroom, Felicity’s got her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head and has traded her clothes for a thin tank top and pajama pants. She’s brushing her teeth with one hand and brushing the handful of makeup removal wipes she’d just used into the trash can beneath the sink with the other.

He ends the evening as he had begun it; coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her, pressing his face into the back of her neck and just taking a moment to be thankful. That she’s here -- that she was in her cubicle at QC that day, or heading to her car that night, or on a plane to Lian Yu, or in the mansion, or in Nanda Parbat; that she was there during all the little moments, too, at Big Belly and OG margaritas, their godson’s first steps, a yes and then a no and then an always.

That she saw who he was, believed he could be better but never denied he was trying; that she ran with and waited for him.

That she trusted enough to wait for the best part after he had given her a lot of the worst.

“You’re dead on your feet,” she says softly, running her hands across his knuckles until he unclenches them slightly. “Come to bed, Oliver.”

“I had hoped you’d be saying something like that, only minus the nesting doll pants,” he murmurs into her skin.

She chuckles, then laces their hands together and walks him toward the bed, kneeling on the edge as he removes his shoes and pulls off his shirt. It’s his turn for something to run down his back when she rests her hand on his stomach, but it’s her words rather than her touch that he feels most of all.

“Admittedly, this is not how I expected tonight to end, but then again, when have we  _ ever _ done anything expected?”

 

_ Felicity calls his cell phone four times in the span of ninety seconds while he’s sitting in with the city’s new ADA, followed quickly by his desk line ringing, and he just  _ knows  _ it’s her.  _

_ “You’re a very popular man, Mr. Mayor,” the lawyer says with a patient, kind smile. Any possible reply he could have is cut off with a curt knock at the door, one that could only come from his iron-fisted chief of staff, and it’s only when Joanna strides in to chuck one of her phones at him that he realizes something must really be wrong. _

_ He catches the mobile deftly, not fully taking in how his usually unflappable employee seems like a deer in headlights when the ADA stands up and introduces herself, and puts it to his ear. “Felicity? Are you okay?” _

_ “No!” Her Loud Voice echoes down the line but they’ve been together long enough that though he tenses at her dismay, the blinding cold fear doesn’t stop him in his tracks. “Well, okay, yes, I’m fine physically --  _ everybody’s  _ fine physically, but they won’t be in a minute.” _

_ “Okay,” he says, getting up from his chair and stepping around Jo, who is shockingly monosyllabic at the moment and oddly flapping a hand behind her in what might be an attempt to stop him from heading to the hallway. As much as he’s come to fear her, he knows there’s no power on earth more ferocious than his Felicity. It might even be why the two women get along so well. So he decides to worry about everything else later, and focuses on his wife. “Stop, Felicity. Breathe.” _

_ She takes several deep, cleansing breaths, and he finds himself matching her cadence. “That’s my girl.” When there’s no reply for a long minute, he says, “Honey?” softly, in the calm, quiet voice he knows soothes her more often than not. _

_ “Your children,” she begins, and oh God, this can’t be good, “have just unwrapped their Hanukkah presents.” _

_ There’s only one thing to say to that, and it’s “What?” _

_ “Yeah. Yup. Your kids --  _ yours,  _ Oliver Jonas Queen, and do not argue with me on this -- not only found and unwrapped, but  _ proudly distributed _ their Hanukkah presents to each other. See, this is why we always do last-minute shopping! So this doesn’t happen!” _

_ He can only  _ imagine _ the pile of wrapping paper and the grins on their kids’ faces. Which is kind of adorable, when you think about it. In this moment, though, Felicity clearly really, _ really _ doesn’t want to. _

_ “I just had to tell them  _ again _ not to put waffles in the DVD player, Oliver. Our four-year-old can’t figure out how to spin in circles in my office chair, and yet somehow they just went all  _ Beautiful Mind _ on me, and not only  _ found _ their presents, but figured out who got what?!” _

_ It is taking absolutely every part of him not to burst out laughing -- and it’s not because he’s in the common area of City Hall, but because he knows his wife will eviscerate him through the phone if he does. She’s at the point where if he so much as breathes funny, she’ll take him out, too. _

_ But damn it if this isn’t what has made everything worth it. _

_ “I’m rewrapping them and giving them out on the proper nights. I don’t even care. And I mean  _ I  _ will do it, not you with your fancy ribbon and even edges. I’m going to do it the way my mother taught me to, using three feet of paper and an entire roll of Scotch tape per gift. You watch me.” _

_ “Felicity.” _

_ She takes another deep breath, one that shakes a little bit, which he recognizes as her starting to calm down. “Yes?” _

_ “I love you.” _

_ “No. You don’t get to do that right now. You do not get to verbally hug me with your sweet husband voice. You need to  _ come home _ and hug me and then make sure I don’t throttle our kids, and also possibly make ziti al forno for dinner, because I need wine, Oliver. Do you understand?” _

_ He smiles, as unburdened and lucky a man as he’s ever been in that moment, and he does understand: that this woman -- their life -- is a constant reminder that the moments, big or small, now or next, little or loud, build the foundations on which things not only stand but survive. “Anything you want, Felicity. _

_ Everybody loves Italian.” _

 

fin

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In my highly amusing and educational perusal of Russian insults, I came across “ebis ono konyom,” which apparently means “let it be fucked by the horse” and translated basically means, “I give up, it’s beyond me, I’m done”, and if that’s not accurate, you have my deepest apologies. 
> 
> Also, credit where it’s due: the flash-forward AU is based on a hilarious Twitter thread from @honesttoddler back on December 4th, which broke me and then of course had to be adapted for my own shenanigans. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this foray through the looking glass, and I wish you the healthiest and happiest of new years!


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